Third Time's the Charm
by likingthistoomuch
Summary: Molly whispered, "God, I'll need a divorce!"


At the end of the long shift, she walked slowly to the dressing room, looking forward to was a quick ride home, a hot shower and hours of undisturbed sleep. When she opened her locker door, a reflection with a slight smile stared back at her. She stared back and then turned to gather her stuff, used to her imagination working in weird ways, though this incident was after a long time.

"Molly."

She whipped around, her imagination never made a sound, it just disappeared. He stood right in front of her, real flesh and bones, dressed as always in his suit and beloved coat. He smiled that crooked smile of his, eyes shining in the late afternoon light. He looked healthy, strong, together…alive.

A far cry from that last time, when she had laid her eyes on his broken and dead body.

Her breath hitched, she gripped the locker door behind her to steady herself…eyes fixed on him, drinking him in. Staring at him for what seemed like ages, she finally whispered, "God, I'll need a divorce!"

It had been his mother's childhood home, a place where he had spent many a happy days. Mummy loved the little cottage with all her heart and it saddened her that she would have to say farewell to the little place. His Nana, in her last spurt of insane lucidity, had left him the cottage but with the condition that he be married! If not, the ownership would then pass to his mother's cousin, a man both sides of the family unanimously loved to hate. Mycroft had his lawyer look over the will but it was water tight.

Although Mummy had been broken hearted she had put on a brave face, but it saddened him to hear her horrified voice tell Father of the cousin's plans to bulldoze the property. So in a drug induced haze, he had put forth the proposal to the new, shy pathologist at St Barts who seemed to have a massive crush on him. It would be a temporary arrangement, they would get married on paper, and continue to live their separate lives, after which Mycroft would assure their quick divorce. She had been too stunned to respond, too dazed to think straight which resulted in her giving her signature on the papers already prepared.

And thus, she had become Mrs Sherlock Holmes.

Mummy had been aghast, berating her boys _and_ the new 'bride' on their magnificent stupidity but the deed was done. The childhood cottage was acquired, its deed handed over to Mummy, who had smiled lovingly and proudly at her younger boy. He had preened like a peacock, and life had moved on.

Till Molly received the news about the first overdose and the subsequent trip to rehab. It was Greg who had relayed the news, having been the one to find Sherlock. The resultant mayhem had pushed the thought of the scheduled divorce out of their minds. There were two more such trips to separate rehab centres before Sherlock got his act together, focusing all his energy on turning a new leaf and deleting everything from his Mind Palace that wasn't deemed important .

Molly too would have forgotten the _arrangement_ but for the fact that she had fallen deeply in love with her 'husband', more so after getting to know the even sharper mind that had been hidden by those drug addled thoughts and actions. Getting in touch with Mycroft seemed impossible, the Holmes parents seemed the only way but she was still too mortified to call them up.

Sherlock continued using the Barts labs and morgue, though now his experiments were more focussed towards solving cases. He continued to flirt with her to get things done, but unlike the physical crowding approach he preferred in his drug-using days, he now used charm. His dazzling smile, a kind word here and there or a compliment on good days and she would end up dropping everything to help him out. She saw through the subterfuge, but understanding what was at stake helped him anyways.

If _this_ was the only way she could stay in his life, she would take it.

Knowing her marital status was a sham, Molly decided to put herself out on the social scene. She dated quite a few men; one of them outed as gay by Sherlock himself. Frustration coursed through her veins, her inability to find even a decent replacement further denting her confidence. Till one fateful day when she was invited by John to attend the Christmas party at 221B Baker Street.

She had got him a lovely gift, had spent time wrapping it and even added a cute little bow. He was the man she was in love with, and it was the season to share with loved ones. Until Sherlock decided to make a joke of her efforts, her heart crushed and kicked to the curb. She would have ended up in tears but her anger at her own stupidity outstripped her embarrassment. She _knew_ … she had _always_ known he would reject her, he even pointed out some of the the reasons she was inadequate. The anger was directed at herself, Sherlock never having made any pretensions to be anything else than the man that he simply _was_.

Till she saw him later that night, in the morgue, his face pale and demeanour shaken, accompanied by his brother, who she saw was seeing after couple of years. But her resolve to ask Mycroft to address their arrangement was forgotten when Sherlock identified the body in a _unique_ way… and his resultant reaction. As she covered the white, gleaming corpse with polished red nails, she worried about him. And then almost laughed out loud at her frankly pitiable state, where a dead body elicited more response than _she_ could ever dream of.

She didn't see him much after that, except that one time he was xray-ing a phone. He was standoffish, curt…just Sherlock. He appeared again a couple of months later, seeming wry about the concept of emotions and relationships. She caught him staring at her with his piercing eyes, simultaneously looking at her and not seeing her at all.

"Relationships…you believe in them don't you?" He threw at her one afternoon. "Emotions…feelings?"

"Don't you?"

He just smirked and left.

Till the day he caught her while leaving for a date, appearing calm on the surface but his agitation clear if you knew how to read him. She guessed she took him by surprise when she pointed out his internal conflict. When he asked for her help, it didn't take her an instant to agree. She was transported back to that moment all those years ago, offering to help him no matter how serious or trivial the matter was.

But her help was not enough, it had never been. The last she had seen him was being wheeled in by paramedics, bloody and dead. She had tried to enter the morgue, but Mycroft had uttered just one word.

"Kin!"

That had her frozen in her path, a long forgotten paper suddenly adding to the weight already crushing her. She had collapsed in a chair, next to John, two lost souls.

She had a very vague recollection of the year that passed. Small snippets here and there but that's all. She lived in a haze and that's how she survived, buffering herself against the pain.

The first anniversary of his death saw her break down finally, almost scaring her friends.

"You needed to let it out, now you can let it go." Wise words from the most distant man, a brother who seemed to have skipped the mourning gene altogether.

But it was the truth and it helped. She started to see things around her, started to feel, started to live. And she met a wonderful, kind man. Someone who looked at her like it warmed his heart. Someone who seemed impatient to see her at the end of a day, someone who couldn't wait to hold her in his arms.

So when he asked her the question, she did not hesitate. She was free, no paper holding her back. Maybe she could finally experience and learn what actual married life was all about.

Till the fateful evening when Sherlock returned.

When he asked upon her to visit, she assumed it would be to sort out the legal tangles holding them together. But it turned out to be a day of conflicting emotions. His words did not match the guarded but… _different_ look he had in his eyes whenever he glanced at her. Till he revealed that the day was his way of thanking her for everything she had done for him. He was cutting her lose, and she felt for a moment that he was reluctant to do it. But she was faced with reality when she received a text from him that night that simply said " _Mycroft will sort it asap_."

 _It_. One syllable that broke her heart and her resolve all over again.

She knew her attempt to move on was a huge failure when the sight of him with Mary's chief bridesmaid made breathing almost painful. She called it off with Tom soon after, realising that she was stuck in the same place as all those years ago. That she was still as in love with Sherlock as she had always been.

This acknowledgement of her own helplessness fuelled her anger when she saw him high as a kite. The emotions behind those slaps resonated with the frustration of all those years. But he seemed unaffected by her anger, by her. Instead his reaction seemed to cement their status, where he would move anyway, anytime, anyhow while she would remain stuck.

It was the closest she came to hate him. She wished she actually could.

Till he got shot and things seemed to shift on more fronts than she could understand. He recovered, though she had momentarily become a widow _again_ , for the second time. _Must be a record,_ her first thoughts, _to become a widow twice because of the same man_.

He had to be dragged to his parents to ensure full recovery in those critical initial weeks and to prevent another escape from the facilities. But things were now different between them. He visited the morgue a few times, but always with John and reluctant to engage her in more words than necessary.

If she felt hurt by his behaviour, she didn't know the difference. That had always been the one constant in their interaction.

Till his visit just before New Year's Eve.

One look at his face and she knew it.

"Third time's the charm, they say." He tried for humour but failed. He just stood there, looking at her with an almost longing look that wrenched her heart. He turned and left, leaving her staring at the spot for what seemed like day and ages.

She moved like an automaton, fulfilling tasks that were expected of her, doing things that seemed necessary in order for her physiology to survive. But she was in that haze again, though this time it seemed even more impenetrable.

Till that one voice got through the fog.

"Miss me?" it mocked.

She went from feeling abject sorrow to feeling abject fear when that face smirked back at her.

She rushed to her flat, having no idea what to do other than knowing that those four paper thin walls were her only sanctuary.

Till there was a knock on the door. A hesitant one.

Checking through the keyhole, she didn't trust her eyes. Warily she opened the door, believing she was hallucinating. After all, it wouldn't be her first experience in dealing with Sherlock's death.

But the apparition did not fade away; instead it just stood there, staring at her, and if she was frank and brave enough to admit, drinking her in.

So he was back, probably to deal with his resurrected nemesis. But what was he doing standing in front of her?

Reading her as always, he replied softly, "Isn't this what people do after near death experiences? See their family?" He stepped closer, sounding absolutely wretched. "I just want to see _my wife_."

She closed her eyes at those words; words she had imagined being uttered a thousand times. Words that had been meaningless, unreal…but as she felt his hands cup her face and his lips touch hers, those words now held a promise. A promise that _he_ longed to fulfil.


End file.
